


A Shot in the Dark

by Opy3332



Series: Four Shots [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Coffee, Established Relationship, M/M, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4097836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opy3332/pseuds/Opy3332
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A case brings Sherlock and John back to the SIS where they first met. It’s full of bodies, intrigue, and, yes, coffee. John is convinced all three are necessary to keep Sherlock interested, but Sherlock just thinks John is an idiot.<br/>So, really, it’s just another day for the pair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So for whatever reason I can apparently only post works when I'm insanely busy. But inspiration struck, so here begins the next installment of the 'Four Shots' series. I'll try to update as regularly as possible.

Chapter 1

 

 

‘Dr. Watson, please make my brother see reason. MH’

John sighs after reading the message and watches as Sherlock continues to ignore the ringing of his phone. He closes the newspaper he’d been attempting to read and stares at the detective across from him, slumped carelessly into his chair, ignoring the breakfast plate next to him as well. Sherlock’s hair is still tousled from their earlier bout in bed and his dressing gown has pooled around his torso. John sighs yet again. How one man could look both sexy and like an overgrown toddler at the same time is inconceivable to him.

“You do realize that ignoring him is just going to make him show up here,” John tries, a last ditch effort to reason with him. Sherlock has been ignoring Mycroft for over a day at this point, and John is being driven insane by it. Nothing he has said for the last twenty-four hours seem to have broken through Sherlock’s stubbornness. John thinks most days the only things to break through Sherlock’s self-imposed mind block is a corpse or sex. And John resorts to both of those far often than is possibly healthy.

His latest words may have finally worked though, if Sherlock’s suddenly horrified face is anything to go by. He angrily plucks his phone from its perch on the desk and taps out a short message; all jabs and brash strokes across the screen.

“Fine. I hope you’re satisfied,” Sherlock snarks out as he marches towards the kitchen, turning his back sharply on John. The sharp twang of beakers being shuttered about echoes loudly in the flat. John stalks up behind him slowly and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s middle.

“Hmmm,” John hums. “Could be more satisfied,” he adds with a smirk, despite that Sherlock can’t see it.

“John please do not tell me that my texting Mycroft turns you on,” Sherlock responds with a full body shudder.

“Ugh, Sherlock. That image may never leave my mind again and you may have effectively turned me off sex. And, no, you finally responding to your brother does not ‘turn me on’. Though you listening to me does wonders for my ego. Mostly it’s you flouncing about half dressed with sex hair that is doing the turning me on.”

Sherlock’s phone dings again just as he turns and wraps his arms around John. “I’ve agreed to assist him, but what do you say we make him wait a bit longer?” He asks with a smirk as he leads John towards the bedroom.

 

 

Hours later John is standing stock still as he waits for Sherlock to finish paying the cab driver and end his phone conversation with Lestrade. He feels odd being outside the SIS building again. He honestly never thought he’d be back, never thought he’d be allowed. But Major Smith had asked for Sherlock, and that was apparently enough of a tipping point for Sherlock, even where Mycroft was involved.  And these days, where Sherlock went, John followed.

They enter through a back door entrance John hadn’t known existed (“Honestly, John. Did you really expect all of the agents to walk in through the front door or the service entrance?” Sherlock had all but sneered at him) and navigate a complex hallway system before ending outside an office door.

John pauses but Sherlock simply brushes past him and into the office where both Mycroft and, presumably, Major Smith wait for them. Both Major Smith and John salute each other as introductions are done, despite John not being in uniform.

“Not quite a captain anymore, sir. Doctor will do most days,” John replies politely but with a smile that belies his words.

“Nonsense. I’ve read quite the colorful history on you,” Major Smith replies. “And rumor has it you’re now keeping up with Sherlock, so every ounce of respect goes your way in my opinion,” he adds on with a chuckle.

Sherlock, whose eyes had shifted slightly to John at the major’s first words, turn wide and pair with a trademark pout as the three other men in the room chuckle. In lieu of a rude remark he simply stalks closer to Mycroft’s desk.

“Details.” he bites out. “I assume it’s to do with Lisbon, as well as Cardiff and Dresden.” Major Smith looks pleased while Mycroft simply looks exasperated, but John has grown used to that as his near-permanent expression around Sherlock. John has no idea about anything involving those three cities, let alone when or how Sherlock acquired any information.

“I’m not even going to ask how you know about any of those, most especially Dresden,” Mycroft bites out as he waves a hand at Anthea, who steps forward with a stack of file folders. “But if I find you’ve been mucking about with clearance outside of this building, they’ll be an inquiry; I’ll make sure of it.” Sherlock’s smile just widens as he swipes the folders out of Anthea’s hand and spins towards the door, coat flapping behind him.

“We’ll be in touch,” he adds with a flourish as he exists. John nods his head at the three occupants of the room and follows suit, if less dramatically.

 

The case details are grim–agents being abducted and shot, execution style, in abandoned buildings throughout the greater continent and across other parts of Europe. They appear random, but both Mycroft and Major Smith are not convinced. Sherlock apparently isn’t either, if his interest in the case is anything to go by. Dresden was the sixth one over the last 12 months, but the last three had all occurred in the last 7 weeks. Whoever it was, they were escalating.

John is reading the case files, hunting for small details that could mean something. Sherlock’s been through most of them already, and John doesn’t have near his skill level, but he has learned enough of Sherlock and his methods to be able to highlight suspicious or odd statements. Sometimes he dislikes being relegated to research monkey, but the cases are often interesting and he always feels a spike of pride and adrenaline when he can pinpoint something based on medicine or trauma knowledge. Sherlock is pacing in front of the sofa and John knows enough to realize he won’t be sleeping tonight. He finishes up the file he’s on and hauls himself off to bed alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 

The next day, they need information from Major Smith again. Sherlock wakes John up as the sun is just peeking over the horizon amid a flurry of words and hand gestures that have him stumbling, practically falling, out of bed in confusion and shock. Some day he is going to be used to being pulled out of bed at all hours, but that day is not today. He’s supposed to be on at the surgery this afternoon, and he reminds Sherlock of this, but simply gets a disinterested wave in response.

“Not even a good morning?” John grumbles to himself as he pulls himself upright. He’s not expecting an answer, Sherlock already gone from the room, but he is surprised by a quick shove, body pressed against his and a mouth, devouring his own. It’s over before he’s even properly aware, and Sherlock is gone again in a swirl of his coat.

“Bastard,” John breathes out quietly, straightening himself up.

 

Less than fifteen minutes later John is grabbing a muffin and a tea from Speedy’s as Sherlock hales a cab outside. The drive to SIS isn’t as long as John would like, still attempting to both wake himself up and calm his nerves by ingesting too hot of tea in large gulps.

Stepping out of the cab, Sherlock opts this time to walk in the main door, which surprises John, but he thinks he realizes why as Sherlock takes a right turn almost immediately. He is rather obviously weaving them on a route towards the lounge area and the Starbucks that is there. It isn’t quite on the way to Major Smith’s office and John picks up on it rather quickly. He slows down noticeably, presented with a situation he isn’t quite sure about, but Sherlock ignores him He can’t hide his smile though, taking in the counter and the two figures resting against it.

“Latte for old time’s sake?” John asks with a nod and a smile towards the counter where Sal and Ducky are pretending to be covert as they watch him approach. Despite having obviously planned it, Sherlock’s eyes light up slightly, probably not enough that most people would notice. But John isn’t most people when it comes to Sherlock Holmes.

Major Smith comes out of seemingly nowhere and approaches them just as they start towards the counter and Sherlock veers his course, already off on a tangent about the case details before the Major is even within proper hearing distance.

“Hey, Doc! What’s up? Didn’t think I’d ever see you again. Heard you stuck it to the man and walked out!” Sal exclaims as John gets to the counter.

John grins. He’d always liked Sal, forgotten how well they’d gotten on. “Not quite, but close enough.”

“What are you even doing here?”

John glanced sideways at Sherlock. “Just doing a little side work,” he says with a grin.

Sal’s eyes widen and his smile grows as he takes in Sherlock. “Tall, dark, and crazy?!” he asks with a wink towards John.

“To a T.” John replies with a wink of his own.

“No way. Dish!” Sal exclaims as he and Ducky both crowd towards the counter.

“You’re nutters, the both of you,” John says with a laugh. “I need a Grande Cinnamon Dolce with caramel and four shots and I’ll try the same, but with only the normal two shots.”

“Boring and adrenaline rush? That go together well?” Ducky asks as she hits the buttons on the register.

John flips her off but smiles as he pays.

“Seriously though, Doc, one day you were here and the next you weren’t. And you were a good employee so we don’t think you got yourself canned.”

“Told him where to shove it and walked out. There’s kind of a lot more to it than that, backstory involving his nibs over there but that’s the quick and dirty of it.”

“You’re my new hero, Doc!” Sal calls over the whir of the espresso machine. “You’re missing your cane as well I see.”

John’s smile is genuine as he replies. “Not quite as exciting as it sounds. Just found myself a new hobby, enough excitement there for it all” he says with a nod towards where Sherlock is huddled in tense yet gesticulated conversation with Major Smith. “Doing some locum work as well, I am actually a doctor,” John adds on with a rueful smile.

“I told you!” Ducky exclaims, whacking Sal on the shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll cough up the fifty cents we bet on it,” he says dramatically.

John laughs. “I’m not sure whether to be insulted or not.”

“Do,” Ducky mouths as she pours with one hand and grabs a lid with the other.

Sherlock stalks over to grab his beverage, eyes on John. As he reaches to take the outstretched cup from Sal’s hands his eyes dart up and move rapidly between Sal and Ducky. A smirk spreads across his lips.

“What did the bet really involve?” His eyebrow is raised as he inspects Sal.

Ducky almost drops John’s cup as she startles and a blush spreads across her cheeks.

Sal simply splutters. “His nibs indeed,” he mutters quietly before exclaiming, “Should have tacked a tip onto that one.”

Sherlock’s chuckle, deep and rare, follows him as he walks away. John stares at the pair for a moment before turning on his heel. “Don’t think I won’t be back to hear about this,” he turns and adds quickly before following after Sherlock. Sal only waves his arm lazily at him in return.

 

 

The papers in Sherlock’s office seem to be piled even higher than before, as if they’ve multiplied over time simply by sheer will. John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock had somehow managed that.

“Connections, John. We need connections.” He takes a gulp of his coffee, making a small face as he swallows the hot liquid quickly, before shuffling folders and papers dramatically on the desk.

“No gender connections, no physical similarities, sustained injuries all different, time of death varies, body position varies, familial connections aren’t traceable, but seems unlikely so far” John rattles the list off from memory, having spent way too much compiling it the night before.

“Crime scenes so different it’s almost comical. Almost intentional.” Sherlock adds on slowly, eyes narrowing as they meet John’s.

“Is that meant to attract or detract?”

“Excellent question, John!” Sherlock exclaims as he grabs the file he’d just set down as well as his latte and hustles out the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

Sherlock hasn’t spoken in thirteen hours. Hasn’t acknowledge John in the last seven, despite his being in the same room for more than half that time, and the three times John has left the flat and come back directly in his view.  It hasn’t happened often, but whenever Sherlock gets in these moods, John feels superfluous in ways he hasn’t since he’d first met Mycroft Holmes in an abandoned warehouse.

The case files are blurring together now, words and pictures dancing across the page and through John’s consciousness. He’s no use, no good, at this point—every clue, every injury, everything is overlooked by him, even more so than usual. The sigh is almost automatic by now.

He’d left Sherlock just before noon, stretched out on the couch in his thinking pose. He worked his five hours at the surgery and came home; left and brought back Chinese. Which Sherlock ignored right along with him. He’d gone out for a beer and come back, still no response. It is after midnight now, and John isn’t sure if Sherlock slept yesterday or not.

“Sherlock? I’m going to head up to bed, you coming?” He tries the casual approach first. Sherlock grunts in response, remaining as-is, standing still in front of his working wall, now covered in pinned up pictures and case files relating to the murders.

He steps just to the side, touches Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s met with Sherlock’s entire body tensing and almost recoiling away before his eyes, grey and pale in an almost translucent way as he loses himself inside his mind, focus on him. Three blinks later and the fog seems to clear.

“Ah, John. Good of you to come back from work.”

John can’t help the slightly besotted smile that spreads across his face. He wouldn’t trade Sherlock for anything, forgotten sometimes or not. “It’s almost one, Sherlock. Come lie down for a couple of hours. Your brain needs a break.”

Sherlock’s eyes twitch from the paper in his hand to the wall and back again several times before landing on John. He can almost see Sherlock analyze his stance, the set of his shoulders, before he sighs and pins the paper back up haphazardly.

Five minutes later, their teeth are cleaned and John is sliding between the sheets, Sherlock already curled up in the space next to him. Sherlock on a case is often an unknown entity, and John is cautious about initiating anything, lest it set him off. He needn’t worry tonight as a surprisingly warm hand snakes around John almost the second he settles in. Sherlock is relaxed and pliant, thoughts just fuzzy enough from being awake so long, but not descended into madness over solving the case quite yet.

It is quick and casual, evidence of the intimacy and familiarity between them. John barely even moves as Sherlock rolls on top of him and does most of the work, head bent into his neck, whispering quiet murmurs of nonsense. They both fall asleep wrapped around each other and with smiles on their faces.

 

John sleeps until eight, a feat which surprises him, despite the late night. Sherlock is gone when he wakes, bed cold next to him, despite the sun shining onto it. That part doesn’t surprise him. He heads down to make breakfast, to force some food on Sherlock, and whistles as he goes.

“I’m not eating,” Sherlock says to him before he even fully enters the room. John stops the moment he can see him and stares.

“You’re whistling and there’s a bounce in your step. You’re thinking that since you got me to sleep last night, you must be on a roll and therefore you’ll be able to convince me to eat this morning as well. Your deduction is correct, I’m already behind.” He sneers as the word ‘deduction’ leaves his mouth.

John sighs, but knows by now which battles to pick with Sherlock. “Tea at least?” He asks. The answering wave from Sherlock could be interpreted in many different way, so today John assumes it means yes to the tea.

Ten minutes later, John has finished his toast and is just contemplating between a shower and laying out on the couch for a bit, when Sherlock stands up.

“We’re going for a walk,” he announces.

“Well, come on,” he huffs after a moment when John doesn’t move.

“Sherlock, you don’t have a shirt or shoes on, and I’m still in my boxers.”

Glancing down at himself, Sherlock seems confused. A bemused look crosses his face. “Oh, well, in five minutes we’re going on a walk then.”

Figuring it isn’t worth arguing, John heads up the stairs to change.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

Sherlock seems to have a plan, if the sudden decision to take a walk and the determined way in which he turns left out of the front door have anything to say about it. John has tucked his gun into the waistband of his pants, unsure of what is going on as usual.

They’re walking in circles, or very large ovals, at least as far as John can tell two hours later. And Sherlock has moved past his usual eccentricities into completely new territory.

“Which color is angrier–blue or green?” He asks John after 30 minutes of silence.

Then, “Does the British Army secure POWs by both thigh and ankle?”

John doesn’t reply to either of them–too shocked mostly. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice his lack of responses though; the questions just keep coming until Sherlock’s voice eventually fades to quiet. They’d circled Regent’s Park twice before taking a sharp turn and suddenly John realizes they’re headed for NSY.

“Are you working something for Lestrade?”

Sherlock simply shakes his head in response as he heads for the back entrance and digs in his pocket. John rolls his eyes when he pulls one of Lestrade’s badges from an interior pocket and waves it over the reader.

“Cold case, a few years back, reminds me of this one. They may have been amateurs back then, there might have been mistakes. Pictures could be important.”

Sherlock dazzles his smile towards the young intern in the basement and they’re soon digging through old files. Sherlock finally finds whatever it is he is looking for and throws the fairly slim file onto the table. John helps Sherlock page through the pictures and corresponding reports. He is mostly skimming—looking for keywords or items that catch his eye. Sherlock is reading them rapidly, taking it all in, occasional words and phrases tumbling out of his mouth as he thinks out loud, as the thoughts can’t contain themselves any longer. Rattling off of facts has become background noise to John now—almost as familiar as the lulling sounds of Sherlock’s violin.

It is two hours in the small, dark room before Sherlock makes a humming noise that John has learned means he’s satisfied, if not happy, with whatever he’s found. Sherlock stands, and the only indication he remembers John is with him is the very slight hesitance as he pauses at the door, not quite waiting for John to catch up.

They pick up food on the way home, only after John puts his foot down, almost literally. Suggesting Indian is probably the actual tipping point for Sherlock, not John’s obvious hunger and ire. Dangling naan and payasam in front of Sherlock were sure ways to ensure he ate. John tries not to use it too often, knowing Sherlock will catch on if he does.

Sherlock had claimed indifference on the food, scowling at John the entire time they were in the small restaurant, but he shovels bites from John’s pile as he wanders the living room reciting the facts out loud, rehashing it all for John.

Just as John is about to drift off in his arm chair, Sherlock’s phone rings

“Ugh, Mycroft,” he exhales as he tosses the phone across the room onto the sofa. It rings twice more as it sits on the cushions. John is pulling his out of his picket before it even begins to ring, knowing the drill by now.

“Dr. Watson,” the smooth tones of Mycroft’s pervading voice greets John as soon as he’s accepted the call.

“Mycroft, how pleasant,” he responds, to Sherlock’s obvious glee.

“Tell Sherlock there’s been another,” John’s eyebrows rise at this, eliciting Sherlock’s quick attention, “there’s a car headed your way even now.”

John is up and standing before Mycroft’s voice has cut out. The familiar adrenalin rush is already thrumming through his veins, and Sherlock is now paying him undivided attention.

“There’s been another, Mycroft is sending a car.”

Sherlock barely contains his excitement, twirls around to grab his files in a half celebratory, half efficient pirouette.

“I’m packing a bag. Grab anything necessary that you want. And I do mean necessary,” John calls over his shoulder as he pounds up the stairs, knowing already that the detritus he’ll find in Sherlock’s case is unavoidable.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for my complete lack of updates outside of the fact that life sometimes gets in the way of itself. :) Forgive my tardiness and I'll try to do better as this story wraps up in the next few chapters.  
> Read and enjoy!

 

Chapter 5

 

The car pulls onto Baker Street just as Sherlock is glancing out the window for the fifth time. John has just barely had time to pack a bag, relieve himself, and grab his gun. Mycroft, or Anthea more likely, is efficient if nothing else. And John really doesn’t like to think of the everything else.

Anthea is holding the car door open, fingers flying over the keys of her phone quickly, despite the darkening sky, obviously impatient for them to climb in. How she can appear at once both completely blasé and over important is just one of her many mysteries to John.

“Anthea. Fancy seeing you here,” he says with a smile as he throws their bag in the trunk, much to the tutting of the driver. Her eyes don’t leave the phone, but he swears he sees a small smirk.

“Not Anthea today though, are we?” Sherlock asks with a smirk of his own as he climbs into the car.

“Sabriel,” she replies with a flick of her hair.

“On a mission today then?” Sherlock queries, even knowing he won’t get an answer. He’s turned away, looking out the window before he even finishes.

Not-Anthea-today finally puts down her phone and looks sharply between John and Sherlock just as the car pulls away from the kerb. She clears her throat.

“The plane is slated to leave in thirty minutes. The pilot has instructions to take you to a secure landing just outside of Monaco and wait. An agent will meet you there and take you to the scene. Depending on what you find there, and Mycroft is trusting you on this one Sherlock,” she adds sharply, “the pilot has permission to take you to Lisbon, Dresden, and Cardiff. However, with utmost care and discretion. They already know we’re looking into it, but the less we can advertise, the better for you two to work, and for the safety of all of our remaining agents.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, and neither John nor Anthea really expected him to; but John has seen the slight tightening in his shoulders and knows he’ll comply. He exchanges a quick nod with Anthea, letting her know he’s vouching, before he, too, turns to face the window.

 

The sky is black as the small plane lands at some undisclosed and falsely innocuous landing strip and seemingly abandoned warehouse. John had nodded off twice on the short flight, less than two hours in the air, and shakes his head sharply trying to clear the fog as they taxi to a stop. There are still papers scattered all over the small table in front of Sherlock’s seat and his hair is even more twisted than usual, evidence of his ongoing thinking and exasperation. John brushes his fingers absently over his shoulder in an attempt at reassurance, though it seems to only irritate him more. He’s stood up abruptly and stalked over to the exit door before Anthea’s even properly unbuckled.

“No patience for the weary, eh?” John mutters with a sigh as he grabs their bag and prepares to throw it in a trunk of yet another ubiquitous black car. They speed through the small, winding country roads and John is glad it is too dark out for him to watch out the window, not wanting to know how fast they’re passing over curves and ledges.

                                                               

The car pulls to a stop and the driver opens the door for them, standing guard as he ushers them out. Anthea wishes them well before the door is shut quickly behind them. They are just outside Larvotto Anthea had informed them, barely inside the border, and they are on a slight hill. John imagines he can see the lights and almost hear the sounds of Monte Carlo from here; he’d never pictured himself there as he’d heard colleagues doing, and it seems almost crass to be thinking that now. He clears his throat and rotates on his heel, following Sherlock in silence towards the small building they’d been dropped at.

Sherlock pulls a torch from out of the confines of his coat somewhere once they’re inside the building.  They’d passed three guards that John had seen, and who knew how many others were silently keeping watch. They both pause a moment as the beam of light swings across the first wall and reveals the grisly crime scene.

It’s a shed of some kind, tucked in the back of the property. Just a stash point as far as anyone can tell; the home owner is an elderly woman with no contacts or motives and even Sherlock was forced to concede that her involvement was unlikely.

Both SIS and DGSE had already sent their initial medics and agents, but both Sherlock and John do a quick but thorough run through of the body, everyone involved wanting to speed up the release of the remains as much as possible. It is one of the worst scenes that John’s been at with Sherlock, and it is only through sheer willpower that he doesn’t lose his stomach. His medical expertise is hardly needed, the amount of blood on the floor makes the cause of death easy to establish. There are small things he notices though, little notes he jots down on his pad. Within ten minutes though, Sherlock has sent off a text for the all clear sign on the body.

He is now stalking around the small rectangular structure, taking in small nuances and muttering to himself. It is in these moments that John always feels superfluous; Sherlock is in his element and John can do little but watch and stay out of his way.

After an hour of retreating to his mind palace, Sherlock rises slowly, texting as he stands.

“The car will be here shortly,” he says; the first words either of them have spoken since they stepped out of the car.

John is tired, and there is a part of him that wants to be irritable, that wants Sherlock to notice him and speak to him as if they were a normal couple. His muscles ache from sitting on the cold stone floor, but he knows they’ll be no warm bed tonight.

 

And he is right. They fly from Nice to Dresden, another flight shorter than it should be, and they spend two hours poking around the abandoned building the agent had been found in, and, not six blocks from it, the small building shared by the SIS and the BND.

 

It is after they visit the site in Lisbon, sun shining high in the east, that John makes the connection. It hadn’t clicked when they were in Monaco or Dresden, or even when looking at the maps of all the sites, including Cardiff, where the agents were both found and/or reported out of. But a Starbucks in Lisbon was slightly more conspicuous than in Cardiff, at least to him.

“Sherlock,” John says quietly as he slows his steps. Sherlock, lost in his own thoughts and the screen of his phone, takes a second to process that John has spoken, and the tone of his voice, and strops abruptly a few feet on from John. They’d been walking the streets for almost an hour since they’d left the last scene, despite John’s repeated pleas to hop the plane back to London.

“The connection’s at the offices,” John states.

“No. I went over them: location, size, departments, employees; everything.”

John nods towards Sherlock’s hand, where his four shot latté still rested. “Of the seven SIS or MI housed or friendly buildings with prototype Starbuck’s, four of them have agents that have now been kidnapped and slaughtered. I should have seen it sooner, my training consisted of where the locations were.”

Sherlock looks from his cup to John’s face with a look in his eye that makes John feel like either a very interesting puzzle or a particularly shocking crime scene. He can never quite decide if it is a good feeling when Sherlock looks at him like that or not. But Sherlock is suddenly kissing him and texting at the same time, smile wide. John decides it must be an okay look.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for sticking with me (and probably having to re-read the first 5 chapters). I honestly hadn’t realized it had been so long since I updated. Life kind of attacked me (full time single parent, full time job, full time back to school, plus, life in general) and this story was in the back of my mind the whole time, but I just kept putting it off. It is finally here though. I’m not sure this is the end of this series completely, but this part at least has come to its conclusion.

Chapter 6

 

The plane lands outside of London almost 17 full hours after they’d taken off; John dead on his feet as he shuffles onto the tarmac, having just awoken when the wheels touched down. Sherlock doesn’t allow them a moment’s more rest though, as he herds John into the waiting car.

“SIS,” Sherlock practically orders as he slides into the car, graceful despite his lack of sleep or food. John, fumbling in behind, is not fairing nearly as well as he slumps into the seat next to Sherlock. Anthea winks at him and hands the Starbucks cups she is holding over to both of them. Sherlock and John’s eyes meet as they both hesitate to grab them, drawing Anthea’s attention. She raises an eyebrow at them and they both grab the cups almost in haste, trying to cover their blunder. No words leave her mouth, but her eyes narrow at them and her fingers slide even faster over the keys of her phone.

They’re on the curb outside the entrance to SIS not even 10 minutes later, despite what should have been mid-day traffic. John’s latte is gone but he’s not feeling any more awake than he did before it, and the yawn overtakes him before he can attempt to hide it. It’s noticeable enough to draw Sherlock’s attention, and John is expecting some type of diatribe thrown his way, but the glance is all that comes before a brief hand at the small of his back nudges him forward.

Before the doors have even sealed behind them, Sherlock’s pace has picked up and he’s rattling instructions towards John.

“I’m going to go and get the full tox reports from Major Smith, not just the garbage summary Mycroft’s minions gave me. You go talk to your former colleagues, see what insight or knowledge they might hold. Sal in particular, he’s been here a while.”

John nods and heads off to the right as Sherlock’s long strides lead him straight and towards where John now knows Mycroft’s office resides.

 

***

 

Sherlock weaves past Major Smith’s office and beckons him without breaking stride as he continues on to Mycroft’s, growing antsier and more upset with each step.

“Tox reports,” Sherlock says to Major Smith as soon as they’re both through the office door. Mycroft stands abruptly.

“They’ve been run; no one saw anything out of order on them.”

“That’s because you only hire idiots.”

“And yet here you are, working for us,” Mycroft adds in snidely.

“Consulting, dear brother, consulting. Remember those times you begged me to come work for you and I continued to say no? Now where are those files?”

Mycroft sighs as he unlocks a bottom drawer and hands over 7 green marked files. Sherlock practically lunges at them and scans through each one quickly.

“You do hire idiots,” he states before pivoting sharply and heading the office door. He hears both Mycroft and Major Smith following behind him, but pays them no mind as he heads off to find John.

 

 

***

 

John sidles up to the surprisingly empty counter and greets both Sal and Ducky with a smile.

“Hey guys. What’s it take to get some caffeine around here?”

“For you, Doc? Sutures and a peek into your mysterious new life,” Ducky replies with a wink.

There isn’t much John can do with that other than laugh. And order yet another round of lattes; he may never get himself to sleep tonight, let alone Sherlock.

“So how is life out there treating you?” Sal asks as he rings up the two drinks. John doesn’t say anything, only smiles, when he adds the employee discount on the till.

“And, seriously, what is the dish on you and posh?” Ducky interjects.

“You two are too nosy and living way too vicariously through me.” John responds with a smile. “And you both also know that I can’t tell you much; I’m here, that should tell you enough about what he’s working on to know its seriously under wraps. I do have a couple of questions for you though, Sal.”

John leaves over the corner of the counter and whispers with Sal as Ducky makes the drinks, keeping an eye on the two of them. Sal has been here a while, and seen and trained numerous new baristas that have headed off in other directions. He jots down a few names (“well, nicknames”) he remembers as particularly odd or memorable and hands them over to John just as Ducky is setting down John and Sherlock’s drinks.

“What did you put on Sherlock’s?” John asks with a sigh, picking them both up and eyeing them.

Ducky is about to tease him more, he can just tell, when her face blanks slightly and she stands up just a bit straighter behind the espresso machine. John looks over his shoulder to see Sherlock, Mycroft, and Major Smith headed towards them. Sherlock’s smile widens when he catches sight of John.

“You find what you need in those reports?” John asks, already knowing the answer, Sherlock’s smile just this side of smug. He hands the highly caffeinated drink to him as he approaches and takes a sip from his own.

“I’m not sure how our country survives with these kinds of idiots as the echelon of intelligence gatherers,” Sherlock fires off quickly, words aimed at Mycroft even as he is looking at his coffee cup, examining the odd drawing Ducky had scribbled on it. 

“How about you share with the class, Sherlock?” Major Smith interjects before either Sherlock has a chance to continue or Mycroft a chance to retaliate.

“John here made the connection,” Sherlock drawls out slowly with a smirk, as if showing off a particularly well-bred pet. He taps his cup pointedly.

“Very good John,” Mycroft says after a beat. Sal and Ducky both drag their eyes from Mycroft to the cup and then back. John doesn’t smile, but does tip his head slightly and hand over the piece of paper Sal had written on.

“Traces of espresso in each agent’s stomach. And, as John so nicely noted, 4 of the 7 SIS Starbucks are missing agents.”

Major Smith salutes to John, who returns the action out of habit, and pivots away, heading back towards his office.

“Wonderful, John. Their minions can take it from here. Time for your attempt at getting me to eat and sleep. Mycroft, I’d say it’s been lovely, but it hasn’t. Sal and Ducky, best of luck on your new romantic endeavor. For John’s sake, I hope it doesn’t crash and burn too badly. John, are you ready to go? I’ve a particularly interesting specimen in the fridge yet.”

Both Sal and Ducky, who had still been staring at the cup in Sherlock’s hand, straighten and take a step apart at Sherlock’s comment. John’s eyes swivel towards them and widen. Mycroft sighs and turns away, already dialing on his phone.

“What you are failing to grasp, John, is that the bet actually was a bit more intimate between your Sal and Ducky here.”

John’s eyes dart from Sherlock to the pair behind the counter.

“What? Really?” He asks Sal, a smile breaking out on his face.

Sal only shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. Ducky breaks out into a wicked smile and sends a lewd wink at John. She laughs as Sherlock again eyes the strange arrangement of poorly done hand-drawn pictures on his cup: a cane, a coffee cup, and a wink emoticon.

“Should we compare relationship success?” Ducky asks with a raised eyebrow as she looks pointedly between Sherlock and John. “I’ve got pages of things I could share,” she adds, voice a register lower than previously.

John blushes at the blatant innuendo as silence descends upon the quartet.

“Espresso.” Sherlock blurts out suddenly, looking rather taken about at his own outburst.

“What?” John asks, confused by the random statement.

Schooling his face, Sherlock looks at the floor before returning his eyes to John. “You’re like espresso to me, my dear Watson. Hot, addicting, energizing, sustaining.”

John stares at him for a moment. He knows he’s been complimented, if in a completely odd way, but he isn’t sure what to do with it.

Ducky, in all her glory, breaks the silence and stage whispers next to him. “Did he just say the equivalent of ‘I love you’?”

Afraid to actually echo the question, John blinks slowly and tries to bring himself under control, slow his breathing like Ella had taught him what felt like forever ago.

The clearing of a throat brings his eyes back to Sherlock.

“If one were to think they could conclusively feel and decide upon such a feeling and statement, then, yes, it may fall under similar assurances,” his posh voice rattles off. And John knows Sherlock, better than he thinks anyone does. His vocabulary and annunciation fall into old RP habits the less at ease he is.

“Or would you prefer the more colloquial, ‘I just solved a case the British Government was too lazy and incompetent to solve, let’s go have congratulatory sex’?” Sherlock adds on after the pause, causing an immediate hoot from Ducky and a laugh from Sal.

John, still red from the last comment, grabs Sherlock by the arm and tugs him towards the door. “Ducky, Sal, we’ll be seeing you!”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Ducky says with a smile and a mock salute.

 

Anthea is waiting in the backset of the car at the kerb when John and Sherlock climb in.

“Mycroft says I’m to congratulate you. There are wine and flowers en route to Baker Street,” she says, eyes never leaving her phone. John splutters slightly.

“Meddling goldfish,” Sherlock hisses under his breath.

“Let’s just forget him and head home,” John replies with a yawn.

“Yes,” Sherlock says slowly, turning towards John and grabbing his hand. “Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, again, for reading and sticking with me. I'm keeping the series as incomplete for now, waiting to see if inspiration strikes me again or not.


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